MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 845: Peek-a-boo

"And we're on!"

The sound of the bell snapped through the arena, and the crowd came alive.

Damon raised his guard, stepping forward with calm precision, his eyes locked on Blake.

Across the ring, Blake bounced on his toes, shoulders loose, wearing that same grin he always had before a fight.

The commentators' voices cut in immediately.

"Round one underway, Damon Cross, green and gold trunks, making his boxing debut tonight. Blake Cole, white and gold, confident as ever."

"Cole's been talking a lot, but talk won't help him here. Cross isn't the kind of man you rattle with words."

Damon's stance was compact and disciplined. He tested the distance with two sharp jabs that cracked the air.

Blake tried to answer with a wide right, but Damon slipped it effortlessly and landed a clean jab down the middle. The sound of the leather connecting drew a quick roar from the crowd.

"Right away, you can see the difference," one commentator said. "Cross's timing is ridiculous. That's not the jab of a debut boxer, that's years of precision carried over from MMA."

Blake tried to pressure forward, throwing fast, looping punches that grazed Damon's guard.

Damon stayed patient, blocking and rolling his shoulders to absorb the shots.

Then, in a blink, he stepped forward and countered with a sharp one-two that stopped Blake in place.

"Big shots from Cross! Cole didn't even see that coming!"

Blake tried to smile it off, but his footing gave him away.

Damon kept stalking. His head movement was tight, slipping every jab Blake threw.

The rhythm was different from MMA, but Damon was adapting faster than anyone expected. He wasn't using the cage angles, rather he was creating them in the ring.

Halfway through the round, Blake started to swing wider, frustrated. Damon's response was instant, a jab to the body, step back, then a short left hook that snapped Blake's head. The crowd roared again.

"Cross is surgical right now. Look at that composure. Every move measured, no wasted energy."

Blake tried to clinch, wrapping Damon up to buy time. The referee separated them, and Damon stepped back, eyes never leaving his opponent.

He didn't rush anything, and just kept reading everything, the small shoulder movements, the way Blake flinched before jabs, how he leaned right whenever he exhaled.

It was information, and Damon collected it effortlessly.

Blake tried to reassert control, bouncing and throwing feints, but Damon stepped forward and took center ring again.

This time, he pressed harder, jabs to the head, right cross, step left, body shot.

Blake's guard dropped slightly, and Damon made him pay with a stiff right hand to the temple.

"Oh! Cross lands clean with that right hand! And Cole felt that one, his balance is off!"

Blake stumbled a step before regaining his footing, shaking his gloves at Damon, trying to act unfazed. The crowd didn't buy it.

Damon moved in again, closing the distance with steady pressure. His punches weren't wild, but they came fast, precise, and heavy.

Each one landed with intent. Blake tried another desperate flurry, but Damon slipped every shot and fired back with a hook that grazed his jaw just as the bell rang.

The round ended to a mix of cheers and disbelief. Damon turned to his corner, unbothered, while Blake walked back slower than before, his grin fading slightly.

"Dominant first round for Damon Cross," one commentator said. "He's walking through this like it's another day at work."

"Yeah, Cole tried to test him early, but Cross is too clean. Better timing, sharper defense, better control. You can tell he's comfortable in there."

In his corner, Victor leaned in with a calm tone. "Beautiful work, son. You're setting the pace. Keep touching him, keep breaking him down."

Damon nodded, taking a drink of water. He wasn't breathing heavy, not even close.

Across the ring, Blake's corner was already working fast, dabbing sweat, talking over him, trying to rebuild confidence.

Damon sat still, gloves resting on his knees, watching quietly. The bell for round two hadn't even rung, but the difference was clear.

The commentators didn't hide their astonishment.

"You know, I have to admit, this is the first time I've seen an MMA fighter adapt this fast. It looks like he's been boxing his whole life. His head movement, timing, and footwork, everything's sharp. He's doing a great job so far. I can't wait for round two."

"Yeah, and for Blake, it hasn't been the best start. He's struggling to get anything going, but it's only the first round. Maybe he'll find some rhythm in the next one."

Both corners worked quietly. Damon sat still, breathing evenly as Victor gave short instructions. Across the ring, Blake's team talked over each other, trying to keep him focused.

The bell was moments away. Damon stood up, rolling his shoulders once before tightening his gloves. Blake pushed off his stool too, shaking his arms loose, trying to look calm.

The referee glanced at both men, then to the timekeeper.

"Seconds out," he called.

The corners stepped back, the noise in the arena building again.

Round two was about to begin.

The bell rang again, sharp and clear. Damon smiled, his eyes locked on Blake across the ring. This was the round. If he couldn't break him, he'd put him down.

He stepped forward slowly, guard high, shoulders loose. Blake met him in the center, trying to pump the jab, but Damon's head moved like it was reading every thought. Slip left, weave right, dip low, every punch Blake threw sliced through air.

"Look at that head movement!" one commentator shouted. "He's making him miss everything!"

Damon pressed closer. His gloves stayed tight to his cheeks, weaving and rolling forward, his upper body bobbing in rhythm.

Each movement shortened the distance, each slip brought him inside Blake's reach. The pressure was suffocating.

Blake panicked, throwing wild. Damon dipped under a hook, pivoted left, and drove a short hook into Blake's ribs.

The sound was heavy, a thud that carried over the crowd noise.

Damon followed immediately, slipping under a counter and ripping another body shot that folded Blake slightly forward.

Blake tried to swing his way out, but Damon was already crouched beneath the punch, shoulders rolling, gloves framing his face. He stayed in that peek-a-boo stance that was compact and ready to explode.

And then he did.

He dipped to his right, shifted his weight through his hips, and fired an uppercut so clean it snapped Blake's head back before his gloves could move. The shot landed flush under the chin.

BANG!

The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Big uppercut! Cole's down! Damon Cross drops him with a monster shot!"

Blake's body hit the canvas hard, one hand reaching for the rope before falling flat. The referee rushed in, starting the count as Damon stepped back, breathing steady, eyes locked on his fallen opponent..